


Next Stop: Love

by kaguyahime7



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance, dte, two dorks in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-20 19:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguyahime7/pseuds/kaguyahime7
Summary: 28 little stories about Patrick and Shelagh, set in the modern AU of "The 7:00 to Poplar" and "A Route to Love and Other Destinations".





	1. "Netflix and chill"

Patrick popped the last bit of popcorn in his mouth as the end credits rolled across the television screen. “I just realized something,” he says thoughtfully.

Shelagh laughs and playfully grabs a handful of the blanket draped across their laps. “You're a blanket hog?” she quips, pinching the small section that barely covered one of her knees and looking pointedly at the significantly larger portion on his side of the couch.

“We've reached a new level of intimacy in our relationship,” he responds.

She blushes and tugs on a bit of elastic peeking out from a stolen pair of his sweatpants. “The matching undergarments weren't enough of a step?” she notes dryly.

He grins and wraps more of the blanket tightly around her waist. “Nope. You gave me your Netflix password. That's akin to a proposal these days.”

“Very funny,” she replies, rolling her eyes and scanning their saved titles list for another movie. 

He reaches into a nearby drawer and pops open a small velvet box.

“You've got to be kidding me,” she says hoarsely, dropping the remote and going wide-eyed at the tiny diamond ring twinkling back at her.

“Will you marry me, Shelagh?”


	2. Halloween costume party

“Shelagh! Are you ready?”

Patrick tapped his foot impatiently in the foyer. Shelagh had been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about her costume for the upcoming Halloween party. She spent the past few weekend evenings at Chummy's apartment, returning with a mysterious cloth bag whose contents she refused to divulge. 

The fake plastic fangs dug into his gum line. He took them out and grimaced as a thin line of spit dripped onto his spotless white shirt and black velvet waistcoat. The red-lined satin cape had been a last minute addition, and after glancing to ensure Shelagh was elsewhere, he gave it a hearty flourish and admired the swishing effect in the mirror. 

“Did someone call the midwife?”

His mouth went slack as Shelagh approached him. The sky-blue uniform hugged her petite frame perfectly. A slim white collar peeked out from beneath a deep raspberry cardigan, and a slim navy-blue belt embellished with a silver filigree centerpiece completed the ensemble. She kissed his cheek and wiped a speck of saliva from his jawline. 

“What do you think?” she asked, twirling around slowly and uncertainly. “It was Trixie's idea. She found some old photos of midwives at Saint Raymond's in the 1960s.” She glanced in the mirror and adjusted the belt slightly. “I hope it isn't tacky to attend a costume party as my own profession.”

“We better get a move on. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

She frowned at his enthusiasm for a hasty departure. “Why would we leave early?”

“The sooner we get home, the sooner I get you out of that uniform.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a gratuitous Count Patrickula reference. This is not Ginchy bait, I swear.


	3. Sick day

Shelagh groaned and shifted her body to accommodate the latest searing pain in her back. Oily, unwashed strands of hair lay matted across her pillow. She longed for a steamy, hot bath but getting out of bed was an impossible task at this time.

The bedroom door creaked as Patrick backed into the room. The hearty aroma of chicken noodle soup and honey-lemon tea mixed with the scent of his minty aftershave. Shelagh pulled a blanket over her head, ashamed of her disheveled appearance.

“Just leave the tray and go,” she rasped. “I don't want to risk you getting sick too.”

“I'm wearing a mask and will wash my hands immediately after I go,” he retorted. “Let me at least check your temperature.”

She coughed wetly. “I'm serious, Patrick, we can't risk you falling ill with influenza too.”

He put his hands up in mock surrender. “All right. But I'll be right outside if you need anything.”

Her hand darted out and blindly reached for the tea. As her fingers closed around the warm mug handle, the muffled sound of Patrick's voice trickled through her sinus-clogged ears. 

“The rapidly declining prevalence of Helicobacter pylori infection and widespread use of potent anti-secretory drugs means peptic ulcer disease has become substantially less prevalent than it was two decades ago.”

“What are you doing?” she croaked. “Is that The Lancet?”

“I’m just reading you a bedtime story,” he called back.

She brushed her hair back and snuggled into the mattress, falling asleep with a satisfied grin across her fever-flushed face.


	4. Bar trivia night

The heavy wooden door slammed shut, missing Patrick's final muttered retort before the words even reached the raucous crowd still inside the pub. Shelagh's cheeks reddened rapidly in the cold night air as she ushered him away from the smoky, stale air. 

“Well, that was an unfortunate coincidence,” she says casually. “But I think losing your temper at the host was for naught. The man was already three sheets to the wind.”

Patrick looped his arm through hers. “I can't believe they asked us to leave simply because we work in the medical field.”

Shelagh snickered. “I think the patrons were more upset with the watered down drinks than score disparities, but at least they refunded our drinks before chucking us into the street.”

Patrick stopped and cocked his head. “They did?”

She pats his hand reassuringly. “I was very polite with my request.”

He rolled his eyes as they turned a corner. The trivia night at their local pub was a relatively new event and he hadn't realized that it coincided with their usual Friday night date until today. The small corner booth they usually occupied was packed with shouting co-eds instead. Swarms of young twenty-somethings roamed the normally quiet local pub, lured in like hapless fish by promises of discounted drinks and a cash prize for the winning team. Patrick gamely agreed to participate purely for fun but even he was consumed with a competitive desire to trounce their opponents with his years of honed medical knowledge. 

“Don't pout,” Shelagh teases lightly. She kisses his cheek and winks roguishly. “You'll always be a winner to me.”


	5. Double date

Shelagh huffed anxiously as she, Chummy and Peter strolled the through the park. Her plans to complete several errands that Saturday morning were abruptly shelved when Patrick sprung a surprise double date on her during breakfast. His enthusiasm only grew as she hurriedly readied herself for the mysterious outing and met Chummy and Peter at the park entrance. The only clues to their activity were Patrick's instructions of wearing clothes they could easily move around in. 

They descend into a vast, wondrously verdant meadow resplendent with spring flowers. Chummy squeezes Shelagh's shoulder and smiles. “Peter and I were just discussing what kind of devilish plan your man has concocted for us today.”

Shelagh rolled her eyes. “You two are in the dark just like I am.”

“Over here!”

Patrick waves at the three of them, enthusiasm practically flying off his face. Chummy and Peter freeze and stare stoically at Shelagh as Patrick wheels a set of two-seated bicycles towards them. He polishes the shining silver handlebars with a flourish and beams at the assembled audience with a grin that stretches from cheek to cheek while parking the bicycles. 

Chummy coughs awkwardly. “This would be entirely the wrong moment to suggest this will be a ‘wheely’ good time?”


	6. End of a stressful day

Patrick sprung up from the couch after hearing Shelagh's key unlocking the front door. Her lanyard, festooned with a variety of keys and cartoonish phone charms, clunked noisily when dropped unceremoniously on the hall table. 

His cheery greeting was abruptly cut off with a sullen, almost cold expression on her face. Subconsciously he longed to reach out and comfort her after what must have been an extremely stressful day at work. She pushed away from his almost-embrace and muttered something about taking a long bath and not wanting dinner.

As the sound of running water upstairs grew in intensity, he walked into the kitchen and started rummaging through what Shelagh affectionately referred to as “rubbish row”. The wooden drawer contained a motley of misplaced household appliance instructions, stained takeout menus, and old shopping lists from months ago. If she planned on soaking her troubles away, that gave him a slim window of time to somehow salvage their evening.

He managed to get their takeout order in quick enough that the running water drowned out his conversation. The restaurant owner, whose family were long-time patients at Patrick's practice, had the food delivered promptly within twenty minutes. Patrick had just enough time to light a mismatched set of candles before Shelagh padded downstairs, nose twitching at the savory smells of lemongrass, sweet chili sauce, and piping hot rice noodles.

She opened one of the Styrofoam containers and inhaled deeply when the trapped steam flooded her face. She gazed at the generous servings of pad thai, spring rolls, sweet mango sticky rice glistening below and sighed happily. 

“You ordered all of my favorites.”

Her fuzzy slippers tickled his bare feet, making him shiver as she stretched upwards to kiss him tenderly.


	7. "How was your day?"

His nightly self-care took all of five minutes these days. It consisted of three parts that required little, if any, effort—sleepily brushing his teeth, flossing and trying not get toothpaste flecks over the mirror, and running a hair-brush once through his hair before collapsing into his half of the bed.

He thought back to first few nights they had together after Shelagh moved in permanently. There was that little smile she allowed herself when placing her toothbrush in the same cup as him. And then that radiant pink flush that flooded her face after taking a long soak in the tub. The latter was one of the few luxuries she allotted herself to unwind after work. He absorbed all of the tiny details and other minutiae to fill in the complete picture of her daily life. He was not surprised in the slightest to discover that he was falling a little more in love with her through the magic of everyday life together.

She carefully buttons her pajama top before smoothing a lightly scented cream across her cheeks and down her neck. Without his reading glasses, it's impossible to discern the exact brand on the jar, but if he squints just so, the blurry lettering seems to conform into words for an anti-aging lotion.

“You don't need any of that,” he calls. “You could wash your face with slog and it would still look beautiful.”

He doesn't need glasses to see the wry smirk forming in her mirrored reflection. 

“Did you have a good day?” she asks, unraveling the heavy duvet and shimmying under the already-warm sheets. The question is not a surprise—it is the final piece to the nightly routine that was a cornerstone of their relationship. 

“It's always a good day when I can end it with you.”


	8. Baking

Shelagh stood silently in front of an awkwardly tilted pastry mountain, smothered in glistening chocolate and a towering pile of whipped cream. The kitchen counters, normally wiped down each night and free from water spots and greasy fingerprints, are coated in flour, dried vanilla pastry cream, and bits of eggshell. Bowls and whisks and various utensils are messily stacked in the sink, bits of raw dough still stuck on each surface. 

Patrick wiped flour from his brow and eyed his creation. This was a man who could barely hard-boil an egg several years ago. Now he was a baking alchemist skilled in the art of mixing sugar, butter and flour into all kinds of edible delights.

She samples one of the doughy spheres and chews thoughtfully. He watches the agonizingly slow descent of the pastry down her throat. 

“These look awfully familiar,” she states. “Was this one of the recipes they did for the baking competition?”

He nods eagerly. “I thought it was particularly appropriate since we're visiting the Sisters today.”

Her eyes widen in sudden realization.

“You made nun-shaped pastries?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, gratuitous GBBS reference right there. Need something light-hearted and delightful to watch? Do that.


	9. "I'm sorry"

You didn't mean to start a fight.

It was just such a tiring week. He was acting as a locum for a vacationing friend and still seeing his regular patients. You were double-cast for Sister Julienne's role at the hospital when she was called away for an emergency. Juggling administrative responsibilities with midwifery was something you used to be able to do with ease. But that was years ago, before a man and his umbrella entered your life and stood to face the world by your side.

Now there's a precariously intelligent child to look after, a bigger flat where socks, television remotes, and keys regularly disappear when needed the most, and a disarmingly charming physician who insists on making your tea every morning, even if he's yet to master the proper steeping time.

You slam the passenger side door shut. The car is the only place to go where Timothy won't hear a shouting match between you two. The sudden flash and vanishing act of the indoor car light further aggravates the migraine that's taken up residence in your head. You can also see the teabag-dark circles resting under his eyes. Your husband's demeanor is stiff yet slack, fatigued but ready for a battle, a contradiction in body language that you haven't got time to translate.

You were cross over how he loaded the dishwasher. On another day, such a trivial mishap would be laughed off. But tonight, your let sharp words whittle away his good intentions until nothing remains except blatant resentment. 

You release all of your pent-up frustration out into the open. The ensuing silence feels almost like an exorcism once your rage subsides. You hate yourself for choosing anger over love. 

But then you remember all the good times as a pair and how you've managed to weather every storm with him so far. You know, with the same surety that the sun rises every day, that the two of you are stronger than this pettiness. You acknowledge your own imperfections and flaws in the hope of becoming better together. 

You offer an apology and reach for his hand in the darkness.

His soft, lingering kiss is all the forgiveness you need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first attempt at writing in second-person POV instead of the regular third-person POV. I rather enjoyed the challenge so this format might pop up again in future chapters. Thanks for reading!


	10. Nightmare

The first thing he hears is Timothy crying.

The hallway is frightfully dark. His frantic attempts to reach Timothy's bedroom are hindered by a heavy blackness that weighs down his arms and legs like anchors. Why can't he move faster? Finally, his invisible bonds are broken and he stumbles into the bedroom, hoping to chase away any monsters stalking his son's slumber.

The room is empty.

Marianne whispers to him through the wallpaper, adding her voice to the awful looping track of Timothy's hysterical crying. She begs Patrick to heal her, to remedy her suffering and fulfill his oath of doing no harm. The desperation in her voice hurts more than any physical wound could. The incoherent roar of bone-chilling moans, painful shrieks, and soft sobbing forces him to the ground. Covering his head does nothing to silence the horrific, gut-wrenching audible mess of disembodied keening that threatens to drive him mad.

And suddenly, it all stops.

His eyes fly open. Shelagh blinks worriedly at him, her hand still resting on his shoulder. His pajama top is soaked with cold, slimy sweat and he shudders as goosebumps multiply across his forearms.

“It was just a bad dream,” she soothes. Her body is wondrously warm and real and solid as it curves around his shivering back. “It'll be all right.”

He believes her, but sleeps with one eye open the rest of the night, daring his darkness to show itself again.


	11. The Most Important Decision

He doesn't make decisions without considering all possible variables and outcomes.

There was limited time available before he was forced to act. Further research would only delay the inevitable, and if he failed to act quickly, disappointment would be his only reward. His instincts steered him towards one option, but what normal person relied on cold, hard logic alone? Some people pandered greeting-card ready sayings about “going with your gut” or “leading with your heart”. Surely he wasn't the only poor sap faced with indecisiveness? 

Being objective was difficult too. Even with all the facts right in front of him in bold, colorful text, he struggled to make a choice that didn't stink of regret. It was wrong to stress himself over something so trivial. But was it really such a simple matter? Every action had consequences, that was a truth ingrained in him from a young age. 

“Well? Have you come to a decision?”

Patrick's finger hovers anxiously over the clear glass case. The bored, clearly frustrated teenager taps a metal spoon impatiently against the granite counter. He hears Timothy outside with Shelagh, loudly asking what's taking his father so long to make such an easy choice. Bless her, she tells him to be patient and not rush Patrick's dilemma. 

It's time to choose. He nods confidently. Yes, when thinking about the future, it was most important to be mindful of the importance of such a major decision, but ultimately he should be confident in his selection skills and his ability to live with the fallout.

“I'll have a scoop of chocolate, please.”


	12. Morning glory

It's rare that he sleeps in later than her. Even on weekends, when neither of them is scheduled to work and they can theoretically stay in bed until at least eight, Patrick is up with the sun, making their morning drinks and already halfway through the weekend paper. It's like a commercial she's seen on TV—a woman with perfectly tousled bed-hair and pajamas with just the right amount of wrinkle and fading prepares a fresh cup of coffee for the husband. A glittering aroma drifts magically down the hall and into the bedroom, awakening the sleeping husband faster than true love's kiss.

Weak sunlight is just barely breaking through the drawn bedroom curtains. The alarm clock numbers blur together until she manages to find her glasses. It's barely seven. The muted chill of carpet against her bare feet knocks away some of her remaining drowsiness. Once she rises and goes to wash her face, she'll be completely awake and unable to fall easily asleep again.

Patrick sneezes and sleepily mumbles her name. That's enough of a reason to stay in bed, she reasons, and hastily snuggles back under the blankets. It's strange to watch his sleeping face in crystal-clear vision. The concerned forehead wrinkles, frown lines and little dimples that dent his cheeks when he smiles are all gone, and all she sees is smooth skin, free from worry or concern. The rest of the world may be getting ready to face the day, but she is content to lie peacefully beside him for just another minute.


	13. Trip to the zoo

“Look at that one! It's smashing the crab open against a rock!”

Shelagh laughed from behind the brochure she snagged at the front gate. The river otter enclosure hadn't been one of the original top spots Timothy wanted to visit once he was told about this weekend outing. After spending the break between the spring and summer terms cleaning equipment at Patrick's office, it seemed kind to reward his hard work, and Timothy eagerly played tour guide as they made their way to exhibits that featured large cats, gorillas, and a terrifyingly diverse insect house that Shelagh opted to skip. The river otters were towards the end of their route, and Timothy quickly ran over once he saw the swarm of small, sleek creatures calling to each other and happily bludgeoning crustaceans in a shady stone bed. 

“Can we get a pet otter?” Timothy asked, still wide-eyed as they wandered into the blissfully air-conditioned gift shop. 

“No,” Patrick and Shelagh replied together. Timothy had been hounding them about getting a pet ever since his friend Jack took in a stray dog over the winter. 

Patrick idles by a revolving stand of postcards and magnets. He flipped through some of them, chuckling under his breath as Timothy tried to convince Shelagh that an otter would be a self-sufficient, easy-to-care-for pet. 

“Something catch your eye?” she asks.

He grins and shows her a postcard of two otters floating downriver together. The phrase “You're my significant otter” is written in looping, fanciful script below. 

Timothy stares at his father, who tries to repeat the joke multiple times but gets caught up in heaving laughter each time. The mad glint in his eye is a warning to Shelagh, who knows that same wild look from his father just before he strikes a conversation dead in its tracks with a trademark pun. 

“You otter be ashamed of yourself, Dad.” he proclaims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I fell down a deep research rabbit hole researching exhibits at the London Zoo and they have the most adorable otter exhibit that gave me all the warm fuzzy feels, of course I had to include it. And of course there were puns.


	14. Valentine's Day (aka Loved Up)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to my Tumblr pal Teacups!

“It's certainly romantic, I suppose.”

The abrupt power outage was only the latest wrinkle in Patrick's plan for a romantic Valentine's dinner at home. They both easily agreed that dining at a fine restaurant tonight would be too costly and crowded for their tastes, and cooking together was one of their favorite activities to do together.

First, the market was sold out of the meat they planned to cook. And then Timothy's school called with the news that he was being sent home early due to a high fever. He was finally sleeping peacefully after careful dosing with chicken noodle soup and a rather nasty smelling children's cough syrup.

And then the rain started.

The forecast this morning never even mentioned the chance for storms. The weatherperson declared it would be a beautifully clear evening for all the lovebirds out on the town. One, then dozens more, and then millions more little water drops showered down from the darkened, cloudy sky. The wind sent tree branches hurtling through the air like javelins. The kitchen lights twitched and cut out suddenly, plunging the two of them and their half-prepared meal into complete darkness.

Shelagh hands him another peanut butter sandwich. He washes the remnants of his first one down with a hearty chug of milk. She laughs softly and wipes away the slim white mustache above his upper lip. He cuddles her close, keeping one ear open for any sounds from Timothy’s room and the other pressed against Shelagh’s steady heartbeat.

Shelagh takes a thoughtful bite of her own sandwich and gazes around the living room, softly aglow with the light of several candles and upturned flashlights. 

“Well, you did promise me a candlelit dinner tonight.”


	15. Rainfall

There's a saying he read somewhere about how water washes everything away. Time, sins of the past, or even good things worth remembering. That was the trouble with getting older. He would see something profound and then in the next breath completely forget its source. 

“It's really coming down out there,” he comments, shaking his umbrella and inadvertently dousing the bottom half of his pants in grimy rainwater. Shelagh ushers him into the living room where a roaring fire quickly dries his damp hands and feet. Her body is warm from sitting by the flickering flames and easily entices him to curl up beside her, content as a cat who found the warmest spot by the hearth. 

“So, here's what I thought we could read tonight.” Some couples, he thought sardonically, had specific shows they watched on weekends. Others participated in outdoors adventures or athletics. He and his wife, on the other hand, read medical journals together. “There's a new article in The New England Journal of Medicine about oral versus intravenous antibiotics for orthopedic infections.”

Patrick opens his mouth, but she cuts him off before a single word comes out. “I know what you wanted to read, but there's only so many articles on gastroenterology I can stomach in a month.”

Shelagh smirks triumphantly when Patrick doubles over laughing. 

“That's my girl,” he says happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous ulcer joke for Ginchy XD.


	16. Sick day (part 2)

Patrick hissed through his teeth as he lowered himself into the tub. Shelagh tucked a small hand towel behind his neck and tossed in another generous scoop of Epsom salts. 

“I don't know why you didn't ask someone else to replace the water cooler,” she muttered. “And just the other day you were lecturing Timothy about proper form for lifting heavy boxes. One might call that hubris, dearest.”

“This is where the 'love and cherish in sickness and in health' part of our vows come into play,” he said, his face twisted into a grimace when he reached forward to shut the water off. 

She forced his shoulders back slowly and twisted the silver knobs herself. “I'll get the compresses ready. And I've already spoken with Nurse Crane and arranged a locum for the rest of the week. You'll need to procure a box of chocolates for her since she'll be quite preoccupied dealing with your substitute.”

He waved her off and sunk deeper into the water, his lower back seized in pain but slowly loosened. The warm water and gently fizzing bath salts made his eyelids droop and nearly lulled him to sleep. 

She perched herself on the tub rim and purred, “Do you know the proper way to pick up a heavy object?” Her breath tickled his eardrum and sent a shuddering wave down his spine. He groaned heavily, either from the sudden, unexpected movement or creeping desire from that tone in her voice. 

“Shelagh,” he whined. “Don't do this to me now.”

Her loose-fitting shirt did a marvelous job obscuring her slim waist. The hemline fluttered as her body lengthened to retrieve the puddle of clothing on the floor. A sly grin edged across her face as she noted his fixed gaze on the small stretch of exposed skin around her abdomen. She rose in a singularly fluid motion and gazed down somewhat triumphantly at him. 

She casually sauntered out without another word.


	17. Moving on

Patrick sighed heavily as he set down the bursting cardboard box. It was labeled as “Kitchen misc” on the side but he truthfully did not know if the box actually contained crockery or his socks. He compared the two packing box towers in the entryway. One was neatly stacked and carefully labeled in Shelagh's perfect schoolgirl script. The other was a wobbling Jenga tower waiting to collapse and spill its innards on the floor. Downsizing to a smaller flat seemed like a good idea before he had to try and fit all of his worldly possessions in half-a-dozen cardboard boxes. His arthritis was only getting worse and moving somewhere where he didn't have to hobble up and down stairs was only practical for a man at his age. He hated the way that sounded, like he was an antiquity that belonged in a museum with the rest of history's famous dead things. 

Timothy would be here soon with the van to transport what was left of their worldly goods a few miles away. The box next to him bore a truly cringe-worthy label of “Patrick's things that should have been sorted but were not”. When did Shelagh have time to compose passive-aggressive labels in addition to packing up their entire household? But a closer examination tickled something in the back of his mind, dredging up memories that were dusty and caked over from old age. 

This was not Shelagh's handwriting. 

Each of the letters composing this literary guilt-trip were squished close together and teetering precariously to the right, the d's and b's practically falling over each other, making the words blur together even with his bifocals on. The writer was clearly in a hurry to label this box, perhaps stopping to hastily scribble this down before dashing off after their toddling son, who was always up to his little ears in mischief. 

You could tell a lot about a person just from reading something they wrote. There was love crammed into between each word here, barely contained and threatening to burst right off the faded brown box. 

“Oh, Marianne,” he sighed.


	18. Love is not a dead language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Latin translation in this story was courtesy of Google translate. Any mistakes are my own.

Shelagh was awestruck at the sight before her.

It was as if she stepped through a portal into a different age. Towering, but sturdy shelves packed to the brim with delicately bound books surrounded her into a comforting embrace. Trying to describe the musty, but delicious aroma of old books was impossible, even if there were a dozen thesaurus volumes within easy reach.

She dreamed of places like this as a girl, rooms with an endless amount of reading material that would transport her to worlds unknown without ever leaving her bed. She dared not raise her voice beyond a reverent whisper, afraid of breaking the intangible magic that made a place composed of crinkled paper and dried printer's ink come alive.

“I think we're in the dead languages area.” Patrick pulled a book at random and carefully pored over its contents. “Latin, just like I thought. Reminds me of being stuffed into a suit on Sundays and sitting through Mass with my mother.”

She rolled her eyes, a habit acquired from Timothy seemingly through osmosis. “Can't you just appreciate where we are for a moment? The rare books section of a library is a treasure trove of knowledge. I could spend a lifetime in here and never get bored. This is an experience you should savor, Patrick. Besides, Latin isn't a dead language.”

“Fine, it's archaic. Semantics, my dear Watson,” he grins. “ _Lingua Latina non mortuus est_.”

“That's impressive pronunciation. What did you say?”

“Latin is not a dead language,” he smirks.


	19. First love

“How do you know you're in love?”

The plate of apple slices and graham crackers falls from Shelagh's hands and clatters on the table.

Four seconds to inhale, seven seconds holding, and eight seconds with a slow exhale. Who would've thought the breathing exercises she taught to laboring mothers would be relevant at home? Timothy nibbles mouse-like on an apple slice while Shelagh frantically tries to recall anything from her medical training about the love life of an adolescent boy.

“Do you think you're in love?” she asks. Surely there were a few more years until someone—namely Patrick—would have this discussion with Timothy.

“I don't really know. All I know about love is from comics. Like when you marry your dead girlfriend's clone, have a baby that was genetically masterminded by a creepy Victorian shape-shifter, and then it takes literal hell on Earth before confronting your relationship issues.”

He grins, smugly knowing that he's left her speechless twice in one sitting.

“I think your father would be a better person for such a consultation,” she suggests.

Timothy snorts derisively. “I'd rather jump out the window than talk about mushy stuff with him.” He picks up one of the fallen graham crackers and points it directly at her. “How did you know you were in love with Dad?”

Part of her is flattered that he actively sought her advice. Another part winces sympathetically for Patrick and his son's distinct disinterest in his romantic experience. But at least this is the first question all afternoon she knows how to answer properly. “Oh, that's easy. We were on the couch--”

“Is this a story that will require therapy for me?” he interrupts quickly.

She removes her glasses and massages the bridge of her nose, stifling a laugh. “No. I asked what he was thinking about, and despite his rather...unusual answer, I still wanted to stay on the couch to cuddle with him. And that's how I knew I was in love.”

“Was he thinking about how much he loved you?”

“Apparently he was thinking about an upcoming ulcer clinic.”

Timothy looks completely disgusted.

“If that's what loves is, then I don't want it.”


	20. Wishing star

Her sense of smell is knife-sharp in the woods. A gray haze of disinfectant and diesel fuel normally dulls her sinuses at home. But out here, everything has a crisper taste, almost sharp enough to open her mouth and take a bite out of the cold night air mixed with freshly trod earth and just-fallen pine needles.

The too-loud television from the neighbors next door and the constant dull humming of cars driving at all hours are absent tonight. Instead, she is treated to a symphony of nocturnal birds hooting somewhere above her, the wind whistling through the trees, and the occasional jerking snore from Timothy's tent. Everything seems utterly still, yet somehow more alive then when she's falling asleep to the sounds of a city at rest.

Patrick throws another log into the fire and joins her under the thick, flannel blanket. His hands, snugly warm in a slightly too-small pair of hand-knit mittens, point to a particularly bright arrangement of stars sparkling above them.

“I think that's the giant spoon.”

“The Big Dipper,” Shelagh corrects gently.

“I like my name better,” he jokes. “And that river of stars is the Milky Way bar, and the tiny little red dot is a Mars bar--”

She laughs. “You're just naming candy bars, not constellations.” Suddenly, a flash of light streaks across the sky. She cries out in awe as the diamond-like speck fades just as quickly as it appeared.

“Did you wish for something?” he asks, finding her hand and squeezing it.

She burrows beneath the blanket and relaxes against him, their shared body heat gradually warming every little cold bit from her head to her toes like a newly-born star.

“ _This._ ”

 


	21. "Just one more kiss to make it better"

Patrick squinted into the sun and tossed the football down the field. When Timothy first approached him for homework help, Patrick happily agreed to assist without any further explanation. Now he regretted not asking for that rather minor detail of which subject was troubling his son.

His entire body ached from cardiovascular exercise that made his shirt nearly translucent with sweat. His pants were caked with dirt and grass from thirty minutes worth of diving and running. He needed a shower—or better yet, the phone number for a youth football coach.

Timothy jogged backwards and stumbled over his ankles. He really was his father's son, all coltish grace and knobbly knees when it came to athletics. But Timothy also inherited both parents' stubbornness to challenge any obstacle. His shining look of determination was what ultimately convinced Patrick to stand in front of a collapsible net and research the proper way to kick a football.

Shelagh clapped and cheered as Timothy set the ball down and pawed nervously at the grass with his sneaker. Her skirt fluttered like an ocean wave in the breeze and she winked at Patrick from across the field.

And then all he could see was red. The tangy, metallic taste of fresh blood seeped into his mouth and he spat it out instinctively. Shelagh pressed a towel to his nose and briskly told Timothy to look in their cooler for an ice pack.

“It hurts,” he said hoarsely. He sniffled while she gingerly removed the towel and quickly assessed the bloodied mess on his face.

“I would offer to kiss it, but that's not the least bit sanitary and you'd be better off with a bandage and some ice.”

He tried to muster the most pitiful expression possible. Either his acting passed muster or his injury was indeed severe, because she leaned in and kissed his blackened, bruised cheek. He attempted to pivot at the last moment but the searing pain from his nose froze him in place. Her gaze was sympathetic as he applied both hands against the rapidly reddening towel. 

“Do you need another kiss?” she asked tenderly. He would nod if only moving his head didn’t hurt so much.

“It was worth it,” he muttered, closing his eyes and trying to focus on nothing but her soft lips against his skin.


	22. Afterglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you hear that distant whistling? There's a few kettles on the stove for this entry. =D

Shelagh sank against a pillow and stretched, trying to shake out the oozing looseness of her limbs, losing herself in rolling waves of blissful satisfaction and fuzzy happiness. Patrick propped himself up on a elbow beside her and stroked her abdomen slowly. Her belly shuddered under his touch and she squirmed to get away from him. 

“You'll need to give me a minute,” she murmured breathlessly. “What's gotten into you recently?”

He grinned sheepishly. “I'm a greedy man. I utterly love it when you're like this.”

Her mouth twitched in amusement. “You mean with my legs wrapped around your waist?”

“Definitely one of my most favoritest things.” He reached over to sweep the hair off her forehead and kissed each wrinkle that formed when she laughed at him. “You're just so beautiful.” 

“Mmmm.” Articulation was the last thing on her mind as his knee nestled between her thighs and slowly spread them apart. His body was heavy and warm above her, the intoxicating scent of musky aftershave and sweat making her dizzy. He took her wrist and brushed a feather-light kiss there, smiling as her pulse point fluttered faster against his lips. 

“You know I love you more than anything,” he said huskily. Their fingers threaded together and rested on either side of her waist as she arched into him. “More than the moon, the stars, or life itself.” They had barely begun again but he could tell she was near breaking once more. Her hips bucked upwards against his pelvis and she stifled a moan into his shoulder. 

She whimpered as he bent to whisper into her ear. 

“And that's why I'm really sorry to tell you this, but I ate the last piece of cake in the fridge.”


	23. Dancing

“What do you mean, there's going to be dancing after the wedding?”

Timothy stared slack-jawed at his parents. Shelagh and Patrick glanced at each other as Timothy stomped to the couch. 

“Surely he's been to a wedding reception before,” she whispered to Patrick.

Patrick shrugged and shook his head. Their own wedding had been a simple ceremony with a small gathering with their friends and family at the church, and lacked most of the trimmings that the majority of contemporary weddings featured. But Chummy and Peter's wedding was a much larger affair than either the bride or groom originally planned, thanks for Lady Cholomondely-Browne's flair for the extravagant. And apparently, such a high-brow event included dancing at the reception.

Timothy tugged at his tie and Shelagh rushed over before he could undo the simple knot at his throat. “I don't know how to dance,” he grumbled. “Everyone's going to make fun of me.”

“Oh, I'm sure that's not the case,” she said reassuringly. She held her hand out and pulled him off the couch. She placed one of his hands on her waist and realized with a start that he was nearly at eye level with her now. But if she started crying now about that now, he'd likely go off to his room and refuse to come out for a week.

“Pretend there's a square on the floor and you're just dancing on each of the corners. And one-two-three, one-two-three.”

Timothy's eyes widened as they begin to move. Patrick watched Timothy's feet as they stiffly moved across the carpet. His left foot moved ahead of Shelagh's counting and stepped on her toes. He jumped back in a panic and stuttered an apology as Shelagh massaged her foot. 

“Let me try,” Patrick said. He winked as their hands met and she smothered a laugh. Timothy watched as they moved in unison and glided around the small room effortlessly. They stopped by the couch and he dipped her slowly, and the laugh she was holding in trickled out as he kissed her swiftly.

“I knew it. This was just an excuse for more mushy stuff,” Timothy muttered.


	24. Skin

The first time it happened, the room was utterly dark save for a pearly sliver of moonlight across the bed.

She was shy at the beginning, not in a mischievously coy manner but in the way a stranger in an even stranger environment would withdraw into themselves when facing the unknown. She whispered apologies into his ear every night up until then, long after he asked her to stop.  
Her smile returned in the sunlight but would always dim in the evening.

She started that night by removing her sleep-shirt. Her hands must have been so cold when they quickly covered her exposed skin. She had a generous collection of silky negligees and lacy undergarments from her friends, but chose to sleep in one of his university shirts instead, large as a circus tent on her petite body. He held her at once, not out of lust but simply to stop her shivering. He pulled her icy fingers to his pajama top and forced himself to quell the desire in his voice as he encouraged her to keep going. The plaid fabric slipped off his shoulders like an afterthought.

He saw fear in her eyes—fear of that next step in their relationship, fear of disappointing him, fear of her own intangible desires coming true, and what it meant to have them actualized rather than imagined.

But she whispered to him that she was ready, and his hands had a plan of their own, to seek and catalog every place on her body until it was ingrained like a fingerprint. He hoped to replace fear with indiscriminate love in each gentle touch. She is all smooth skin and pillow-soft sighs, everything his heart desires, the dream he never wants to awaken from. And when they move together, he doesn't need any light to see her finally smiling in the dark.


	25. The Ties That Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a throwback to the season 3 Christmas special. I checked IMDB and pulled the dress shop clerk's name (played by Nancy Carroll) from there.

When a bride-to-be came to the Mansion of Brides, it was customary to ask if she would bring family members or her bridal party for the appointment.

Mrs. Linda Buck considered herself a professional, but her heart melted a bit when this soft-spoken bride booked an appointment by herself. Two days prior to the appointment though, she called back and hesitatingly asked if she could bring her sisters. There were no other bookings scheduled that afternoon, and Mrs. Buck was happy to oblige the rather large bridal party after hearing the charmingly enthusiastic thank-you on the other line.

Mrs. Buck survived decades of teased hair and mysteriously multiplying layers of chiffon and organza in her thirty years as store manager. She witnessed the gradual rescinding of hemlines and dried tears for brides who sobbed out of happiness, pent-up frustration, or both. She was the fairy godmother to hundreds of hopeful girls, cobbling together tulle and silk and pearl beading into something wondrous.

But this was definitely the first time she had nuns present at a wedding dress fitting.

There were other young women present as well, co-workers from bride's employer who oohed and awed at the treasure trove of lace, satin and damask dresses lining the racks. When the unusual group arrived, Mrs. Buck assumed the quartet of nuns were simply lost and needed directions. But the bride greeted them like family and shyly introduced Mrs. Buck to her sisters.

Mrs. Buck was delighted to note in her scheduling book that there was not a dry eye in the shop when this bride, clad in full wedding finery, emerged from behind the dressing room curtain.


	26. Silver lining memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psssst. Hey Birdie, this one's for you.

When Anthony Newgarden came to Saint Raymond's bearing a sealed letter and a check made out to the hospital for fifty thousand pounds, Sister Julienne realized that even in death, Charlie could still surprise her.

The letter contained all sorts of nostalgic intimacies that made her blush, no easy matter for someone who answered to Sister Julienne longer than she was called Louise. She kept his loving words neatly tucked away in her smock beside her prayer beads, enjoying the occasional rustle of soft parchment paper against the wooden relic. It was a silly, girlish superstition that drove her to keep his last wishes within easy reach at all times, because if she put the letter away, it might disappear forever, just as Charlie did.

The board of trustees loved any excuse for a bit of gaiety around the sparse corridors of the hospital, and that was precisely how Sister Julienne found herself standing off to the side in the hastily decorated boardroom. The biscuits were a bit stale and the coffee tasted like it had been made last century, but the overall mood of the room was merry and she enjoyed watching her staff throw off their workplace fatigue for a night of fun.

Laughter, soft as silvery bells and clear as the sky outside, floats above the din and manages to reach her in the corner. Shelagh shines like an angel in her sparkling silver gown amidst a sea of slinky black frocks and poorly-fitted suits. Patrick brings her close for a kiss while the musicians drag out the final note of a song, and as their faces blur together, Sister Julienne hears the halting question Shelagh asked her long ago over two cups of tea and a box of pink wafers.

_“Have you ever been in love, Sister?”_

She reaches into her pocket and holds the letter between two fingers when Shelagh and Patrick join her table, chattering happily about Charlie’s generosity and the good it will bring to the hospital. The cadence between them stirs up the memory of another man and woman who could easily finish each other's’ thoughts. The couple here beside her verily glowed with the happiness that came from being with the person you loved.

It was enough for her to see the gathered crowd celebrating together. It was enough to know that Charlie’s final wish for her was to spread a little more compassion and care into the world, and to do so with those she loved most.

Sister Julienne reminded herself there were all kinds of love in the world to be had, if you only looked close enough.


	27. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content/trigger warning for this story: mention of infant death and SUIDS.

The chapel door was unexpectedly heavy. Perhaps it was because those who came inside carried even weightier burdens inside their hearts. 

He found Shelagh sitting in the back alone, still wearing her work scrubs and a heavy cardigan despite the warmth of the little room. A dozen flickering candles shimmered down front perversely reminding him of the illuminated alter they stood before as husband and wife for the first time.

She didn't flinch when he sat beside her. The tendons in his foot faintly whimpered after the mile-long sprint from his practice to the hospital, but he ignored the pain as Shelagh sank into his arms. 

“We saw little Thomas a week ago,” she whispered. “Cynthia was positive that his delivery was absolutely normal. And there were no signs of respiratory distress at his appointment, and Mrs. Kelly was adamant that his airway was never obstructed at night, and--”

“There isn't a definitive cause for SUIDS,” he murmured, stroking her hair slowly, calmly, as you would a skittish, frightened animal. “No one is at fault here.”

She wiped her eyes. “What do you call the opposite of a miracle? Because describing this as a tragedy implies you can't blame anything or anyone. The light of someone's life was snuffed out without notice and saying 'we don't know what happened' is unacceptable.”

Her grief soaks into his skin through the steady stream of hot, soaking tears bleeding through his coat. If she were his patient, he would try to use reason and science to blur sorrow. If she were any other midwife and nurse, he could offer some degree of comfort without losing himself in sadness. 

But he cannot say that everything will be all right again. This is a promise he dares not make, because when it is broken, he will have to live with the knowledge that he lied to his wife. And so he tells her the only thing he can be absolutely certain of right now.   
“I love you.”


	28. Next Stop: Love

Shelagh Mannion walked down many aisles throughout her life.

The little church down the hill from her childhood home had a singular passage that ran straight from the heavy oak doors to the simply decorated altar. It was there that she cried for the first time, swaddled in a lacy white baptismal gown in her mother's arms, and utterly startled by the droplets of holy water across her downy blonde head.

Then there were all hallways of classrooms she wandered through, nose in a book most of the time and generally unaware of the ever-growing world around her. It was there that she discovered her love of the healing arts and eventually found a place for herself in a hospital that was always full of laughter, joy, and an exceptionally well-stocked cake pantry.

This is the first time someone else will be beside her, though. He leaves love notes in her lunch bag, with the paper scraps neatly tucked between her sandwich and a package of cookies. And he insists on helping with the laundry and uses entirely too much detergent, but at least his heart is in the right place. He always wears socks in bed and drinks milk straight from the carton and never leaves their home without saying he loved her. And her favorite time with him will always be navigating the narrow aisle on the daily seven bus to Poplar every morning.

She worries Patrick's face will split from the wide, million-watt grin stretching from ear to ear, bright enough to drown out the little votive candles adorning the pews. He lowers his face to hers for their first kiss as husband and wife and says, soft enough for just the two of them to hear.

“Next stop—love.”


End file.
